Mumblebots, roll out.

Oh hi! I know, it's retarded how long it's been. Not Chunk from "Goonies" retarded, but definitely Corky from "Life Goes On" retarded, and that's plenty to warrant a semi-heartfelt apology. Forgive me. Please. I beg you. It's just I've gotten so lazy since we started podcasting. I'm even lazier than I was before. It's like I'm trapped inside an infinite loop of slack, and the only time I have to myself between work and screeching subway jaunts I spend looking at the back of my eyelids during marathon rounds of viking bear sleeps and getting taken to nerd school by 7 year old murder prodigies playing CoDMW2 online. After seeing how easy it is to record my jabbering and then watching as The Unbeatable Kid turns said jibber jabber into Ipod-ready, digi-bitified laser magic overnight, it's really hard to sit here with giant ape fingers and push normal finger-sized buttons at such a painfully slow pace. See, in real life I talk faster than most humans (Please download podcast #5 later this week for an example of this). But when I type, my normal pace screeches to a halt, and as a result when using a keyboard my words come out approximately every 3 to 5 minutes on average. I may be the least enlightened person I know, but if I typed the same way I spoke I'd sound like a foul mouthed stand-up comedian imitating a Zen master on his death bed. As stated earlier, this is mostly due to my gigantic Godzilla hands, but also has more than a lot to do with my lack of basic skills in grammar, punctuation, as well as spelling, not to mention my disregard for all forms of labor, big and small (including typing).

All this aside, It is nice to see my words again rather than having to hear my awful, awful voice. It's refreshing not to hear that painful droning I make when I open my face hole to communicate with others. Because when I read myself (rather than listening to myself) I can at least imagine my voice sounding better than the Harvey Fierstein Meth Chef thing I got going on in real life.

Can someone explain why the pitch of my voice is so high? In my head I sound like Roy Orbison or James Earl Jones. But on tape it's a different story all together. I need to stop smoking cigarettes. I sound like Joan Rivers on testosterone therapy. For serious. When I breathe I sound like a bagpipe getting thrown down the stairs. On more than one occasion I've been told I could do ADR for Mutley from Hanna-Barbera, or make extra money providing dubbing for the subjects of a non-English speaking documentary about Transsexuals. I know. That all sounds pretty cool. But the last time I checked, I'm a MAN. And you can call me old fashioned if you want, but I know what I want, and what that is is to sound like a MAN when I speak the King's English. Sorry to be a sexist. But it's the truth.

Remember back in olden times when I first wrote this blog I told you that I'd never lie to you? Forget all the lies I told you before, this time I mean it. Until I find a way to de-wimpify my voice I'll keep sounding like the shifty kid at Ritalin camp that hit puberty too early.

So that's that. Download the podcast. Unbeatable will send the laser links later in the week.

I guess that's all I have to say. In closing, here are three awesome things.

Love always,

Recon.

Whingefest 2009: Another installment in the "you know, that Recon sure complains alot" series.

Life is good, Mr. Internet. But man. Lately I've been running. Not literally, obviously. I run around the heated indoor track inside my head. Lot's of writing. Too much. Makes me feel like a Robot with low batteries.. So I decided to come here and write about my writing-induced Neuroses in order to escape my other writing. By writing about it.

My brain has been running Like Jesus would run if he came back to Earth tomorrow then out of nowhere Coach puts him in to play with 5 seconds on the clock in the last game of the season.

Running down a dream is more like it. These scripts I may never sell are kicking my mind's ass. Pray for me, invisible internet family. The Albatross of re-writing hanging around my neck is starting to sag, giving me a wicked case of psychic Front Butt* I can't seem to shake off.

(fig.a: "Front Butt", aka "B.I.F." (butt in front).

Argh! It makes me want to run to the hills. Should I do it? It sounds tempting, except for the hills part. I wish I could just leather up, dust off the Hog and hit the highway. How I wish. I'd soar, boy. Like a God damned Condor.

I'm going to do it. Go away for a while, take a load off. If they ask why I ran, I'll tell them the truth. I just ran. I ran so far away.

I had to get away. Because the truth is, the voice inside me that just wants to smoke reefer and play Street Fighter all day is slowly but surely losing out to the bigger, brassier Morgan Freeman-like voice of impending reality. Yikes.

What I need to do is harness your power, Internet.

We'd make a great team, Internet. Side by side we'd shine, like glimmering robot brothers.

I want to get back in touch with the mysteries of Nature.



I used to kick it with the homies on the Regular.



But lately, I feel like I'm doing my own thing.

I just feel like something inside of me is going to burst out of my chest if I don't find a balance with everything.

So I keep writing. If only to avoid disaster.

I hardly ever have time to practice my flute, let alone my dance fighting.

I just need to remember to move like a cat, and think like a wizard.



I think I also might need exercise.



Some sun would be good.

I could use an evening of dancing. Preferably to the sounds of urban street hop in order to increase the chance of triggering an exciting break dance duel.

I needn't worry. With Joy on my left, and Hope on my right, I'm sure to be properly equipped for the tumultuous road ahead.

USA!

(pics via fffound, yayhooray, tumblr)

PS: Surprisingly enough, this Insomnia-induced rant actually made me feel better. Who would have guessed that stepping on the iSoapbox to rant would create such a positive side-effect when placed alongside pictures of Robots, Wizard Cats, and Bigfoot. What a treat.

Thanks for listening. Never forget, you are the Ice Cream Cones to my Dr. Huxtable.

Cheers.

Sipping on Haterade: a brief but profanity-laden essay detailing why I hate the Subway.

I'm not a morning person. I fucking hate trains, uber-hate crowds, and double-plus ultra hate closed spaces. So you can imagine how pleasant I am on a packed subway car at 8:45 on a rainy Monday.

The truth is I'm pissed before I even get on it. I guess I'm old fashioned. I've never been a big fan of high-pitched metallic screeching type sounds. Maybe it's a generational thing. I don't know. I'm not a scientist. But when that lumbering train awkwardly slides into its loud, squealing halt in front of me, time after time I often wonder, did we lose a war recently? I know we're technically in a war and it totally sucks, but we didn't actually lose one, right? It's 2009. The future. C'mon, NY. Fork over some of that Bloomberg money and get us some of those fancy Japanese-style trains. They even have subway masks there. (Fact: Did you know that the Japanese train system of Japan is powered exclusively by the power of Laser Power? Google it.)

But seriously. New trains, please. Maybe something quiet, and relaxing? Things millions of people spend a substantial chunk of their day in shouldn't feel like a Quaalude hayride and definitely shouldn't sound like a cat baseball game between Cylons and Vampire bats.

I hear it now. That high-pitched Hellsong. Getting closer. The sounds of my inevitable misery fast approaching. All aboard. Next stop, panic attack.

When those car doors open all I see is a wall of frowns coming at me. A blue and Grey flurry of leather briefcases, crinkly newspapers, and blackberries. I smell cigarettes and cologne. It's gross. I tell the guy next to me that I'm dissapointed in him with my mind thoughts. I notice that the speaker that the train guy talks out of is humming ominously. It sounds like a growling robot.

I make an executive decision to keep my sunglasses on. Yes. I look like a douche bag. I don't care. I need them. They allow me to spend my 35 minutes of misery doing what I enjoy most in the morning: Rolling my eyes and sending invisible hate beams in the direction of those I hate. Specifically..

1: Anyone engaging in any form or variation of what can be considered Ipod dancing.

2: Those clever little Cosby sweater type dude he guy who thinks he's a Sommelier for microbrews, plays bass or DJ's in 4 bands, and definitely would have sex with Brooklyn if Brooklyn somehow transformed itself into a artsy Japanese girl.

3: Blissed-out passengers that whisper-sing Dave Matthews violin solos. Fuck the fuck off. Go by another scarf and choke yourself with it, you horrible, horrible, person.

4: Air drummers. WTF? What's the functionality and purpose of air drumming a Rush solo at 9 in the morning? God help you.

5: Yawners, moaners, T-Mobile walkie-talkie people, and any and all that engage in repetitive motions, excessive paper folding, sneezing, chewing, coffee slurping, etc. you know what I'm talking about. To the dude grossing me out in the seat across from me: Eat your Everything Bagel like a ninja, not a Golden Reteriver, barbarian. Shut the fuck up already.

Wow, I'm kind of a dick, huh? Oh well. (PS: Don't call me a dick.)

I also make sure to save a certain "emergency reserve" of negative energy for others like me. There's always one other asshole besides me on the train. I usually spot them. But sometimes I get caught giving them the evil eye, which naturally prompts a justified counterattack of sighing, muttering, and scornful body gesturing back at me.

Well played, Mr. Asshole. But I don't fight back. I just keep an eye on them. Real bad boys move in silence.

By the way, if you ever encounter an asshole showdown on the train, whatever you do, don't even think about rolling your eyes back. The double eye-roll is the first stage of the dreaded passive-aggressive feedback chain, a highly dangerous scenario that left unchecked is capable of transforming everyone located in the immediate vicinity of exposure into an instant asshole. And too many assholes doesn't do anyone any good.

The kid standing in front of me is wearing a massive fucking book bag. It's so big I'm giving me anxiety. I know that the train is going to stop short, and my over-burdened friend is too distracted Twittering the morning commute to notice that his Peruvian pack mule-sized rucksack is about to crash into my kidneys, battering my weekend-weary hull like a zippered pendulum of suckitude. Pointy umbrellas and plastic shopping bags swing precariously, seemingly bending themselves towards me, like the One Ring trying to get back to Sauron. The utter annihilation of my personal space is methodical and systematic. They're like Panzer fucking tanks, these people. Invading my aura like I have asshole magnets sewn into the lining of my winter jacket. (*And judging by the surprisingly sharp elbow of the purse-rummaging Chinese lady sitting to my left, I'm also very pokeable. So I got that going for me too.)

I for one applaud them. If you think about it, a coordinated offensive move from all angles is the best way to disarm your enemy. I'm convinced they synchronize watches and discuss attack strategy during their pre-commute Starbucks gatherings. It makes sense. How else do you explain how a bunch of strangers somehow manage to successfully annoy and offend me simultaneously day after day? I don't know. Or Maybe God just hates me more than he hates everyone else.

They're really brilliant at it, actually. Like a pack of carefully trained Ronin warriors hunting the angry Grizzly Bear that lives in the woods on the outskirts of the village.

(Fact: Like bears, I too also enjoy stealing freshly-baked pies off of windowsills. I also take pleasure in making small children cry. Bear style! Booyah. Life is really all about the small things.)

Anyway, I'm done. I feel like I needed to blog that out before I face another week crawling inside that squealing, hellish iron horse of death. Thanks for tolerating the Whingebag I temporarily became for this post. In return for your tolerance, I present you with this tremendous picture:

I thought it was appropriate because that is the exact face I make at people when on the subway. And I love lightning, rabbits cats, and birds..but only in that order.

(pictures via FFFound!)